#future conditioning

The date was the 18th of April. I had until the 2nd of May to find a job and a place to live.

It wasn't looking good.

I slouched in front of the tv, my cola in one hand and the remote in the other, annoyed.

That's one more for the fail list, I thought, feeling some of the dregs of hope left inside me drifting away. I considered tossing the remote at the tv, but decided against it with a sigh. It wasn't the tv's fault that no one would hire me, but it would definitely have made me feel better.

Fifteen rejection emails in the span of two days. Of the jobs I haven't heard from yet, many are outright ignoring me, their website proudly announcing that they've filled the gap without so much as a text to my phone.

It was typical, really. One alleged attempted murder five years ago - the charges of which were dropped, by the way - and no one even considers me.

A father in prison, a mother killed by a gang, ten years in the system and only about eight full years of formal education probably didn't look fabulous either.

But still! They could have at least given me the benefit of the doubt! Even just invited me to an interview to see that I wasn't a total raging lunatic.

But no, they took one look at my record and dismissed me out of hand.

The minivan came to a halt outside the house, heralding the return of the other kids from school. I groaned and switched off the tv to flip my laptop open again before Sarah could see I'd given up the hunt.

I was scrolling through a job site by the time the front door opened and the kids started pouring in.

There were five of us living here currently, though Sarah and Mike already had another kid lined up to replace me when I aged out in two weeks. Two of the other kids - a pair of boys - were still in primary, while the other two - a boy and a girl - were in high school.

"We're back!" Sarah called as she stepped through the door. "Alexa?" She stuck her head into the living room. "Still nothing?"

"No dice," I said, in an unbothered tone that normally wouldn't have fooled her for a second, but she was still too busy with the other kids to give me that kind of attention.

I reckoned she'd already written me off in her head.

Her only response was a distracted, "I'm sure something will come up," before she disappeared again to arrange snacks for the younger kids to last them until dinner.

Sam, the older boy, wanders in. "Are you still job hunting?" he asked, incredulous. I'd started on today's hunt before he'd even left for school.

"Surprisingly enough, there is still no one willing to take a chance on the crazy girl."

"Have you tried Tesco's?"

"I've tried McDonald's, Sam. Of course I've tried Tesco's."

He was silent for a second, watching my listless scrolling. I wasn't taking in any of the information on the page anymore. Finally, he announced, "The school's doing a careers fayre tomorrow, you should check there."

"Maybe." I didn't want to admit that I was this close to giving up entirely and committing to a life on the streets. Besides, I went to the school's careers fayres before I dropped out as soon as I turned sixteen. It was just full of people looking to get a day away from their mind-numbing jobs to convince kids to study the right degree so they could go into the same mind-numbing jobs. Considering I never even finished my GCSE's, I wasn't going to get into any uni's any time soon, so that was worthless to me.

But then again, it couldn't hurt to go, could it? If nothing else, it would be a break from doom-scrolling for a future, and there would be free food and stationary there. The words "free food" were usually all you needed to convince me to do something.

"Yeah, maybe I will go," I said, more to myself than to Sam.

"Cool," Sam said, then disappeared off to the kitchen to profit off of Sarah's snacks for the other boys.

I snapped my laptop shut again to join in on what promised to be a fun half an hour of using the same tricks over and over to distract the boys so I could steal crisps and grapes off their plates.

*

The next morning, I hitched a ride in the minibus from hell with the other kids. It's remarkable how loud a pair of primary-aged boys could be at eight o'clock in the morning.

The fayre was a whole day thing, so I didn't need to wait around for half the day beforehand. Finally, something going my way. It was set up on the massive sports field that could be and had been used for two simultaneous games of football side-by-side. Almost every inch of the grass was covered by a job stall or a food cart or a mobile cafe or one of many student-run information desks.

Most of the day... sucked. I approached every stall I thought I had a chance at and asked if they'd be willing to consider hiring me. After a brief back and forth, I eventually left each one with anything from a polite decline and well wishes, to outright laughter at my sheer nerve for wanting to survive.

Every stall I passed, whether I stopped to chat or not, I tucked a star-shaped highlighter or a clicky pen or a water bottle into the bag I brought, the bag that started out empty this morning. I would need anything I could get if I ended up on the streets.

The only truly good thing about the day was lunch - the food carts dotted among the stalls were expensive, of course, but Mike was a massive pushover; it was no effort to convince him to give me more than enough money. I paid for a large slice of pizza at one cart, and a mocha at a mobile cafe to soothe my sweet tooth. I then had enough cash left to buy a plate of chips to flick at the stalls that had rejected me, coaxing the seagulls and pigeons swooping around hopefully to divebomb them.

In my defense, that was funny. The birds are mostly harmless, they're just hungry. Hungry animals will do things they normally wouldn't for any scrap of food, thing they wouldn't have dreamed of before.

Finally, midway through the afternoon, I spotted a WRU stall. Curious, I moved closer.

The stall was decorated with pictures of men and women of all ages, shapes, sizes and colours, with collars around their necks and strained smiles on their faces. Pets. But in each photo, the pets weren't the focus of the scene. No, the spotlight went to the people standing beside them, of equal variety, but with far smarter, cleaner, wholer clothes and lacking the collars.

"Those are the handlers," the man behind the stall said, following my gaze. "They're the ones that train our pets."

I glanced at him, then took in the pamphlets on the table. They advertised every job the WRU offered: handlers, processing offers, recruiters, execs, medics, admins, secretaries.

I looked back up at the guy, "What qualifications would I need?"

"Well, that depends on the type of pets you'd be training. Much of your own training will be provided by WRU, but to have a greater chance of being hired, at least a bachelor's in psychology is preferable." He looked me up and down, before saying pointedly, "You also need to be able to manhandle a variety of pets, many of which may well be larger than you."

I took offense to that. I had the sort of build that some people would describe as "willowy". I usually preferred to go for "gangly", or even "wiry" if I was feeling particularly flattering. I was tall and skinny, with long blonde hair and the sort of blessed, unblemishable skin to match. Combined with my complete lack of any sort of helpful schooling, I could easily have been a textbook bimbo, except for my tendency to lash out, as I did now.

"What exactly makes you think you have the right to say that? You're so disgusting, trying to put me into a box like that. Just cause I'm pretty, doesn't mean I'm weak, you know. In fact, I bet I could take you right here and now!"

"That won't be necessary," he replied cooly. "Are you going to ask about another role or are you going to move on?"

Most people at least got slightly miffed by my dramatic explosions at the tiniest things, so this complete non-reaction blew the wind out of my sails, deflating me entirely.

I hated this guy.

Seething, I asked, "Do you have any roles that require no qualifications?" I was only half-joking.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Desperate, are you?"

"You have no idea."

He reached under the table and pulled out a new pamphlet, one that wasn't on the table, and held it out to me.

The header read, "Remove responsibility today! Become a pet and let someone else take the reins!"

I looked back up at him, disbelieving. "Really? Is this the best you have to offer? Becoming a pet?"

"Without qualifications, that's the only offer you're likely to get."

I bit my lip, hating that I was considering it, hating that I was that desperate. Surely I wouldn't actually go for it. Right? "And if I were to apply, what would be the chances of me getting the role?"

"Guaranteed."

"Right."

"WRU will provide full training, full room and board, as well as finding you employment once your training is complete."

"What, for free?" I found that incredibly hard to believe.

"Completely for free," the man told me. "You won't have to spend a penny."

"I'll just have to give up my freedom, is that it?"

"You're giving up responsibility," he corrected. "Even once your training is over, you'll still be provided with every essential you may need, and many prospectives have been known to give their pets gifts and amenities they merely want, but could get by without. Once you sign up, you'll never once again to worry about where your next meal is going to come from, or whether you'll have clean clothes to wear or not, or if you can afford medicine when you get sick. It'll all be taken care of."

Man, he did a really good job of making it sound appealing. I almost forgot that signing up would mean becoming little more or less than an animal.

But was that really worse than living on the streets? Was being a stray animal better than one with a home?

"What sort of training?" I asked, more to stall for time for my mind to come to a conclusion than anything else.

The man was starting to look even more bored than before. "That will depend on your designation. You'll be assessed when you arrive at our facility to determine what you'd be best suited for. WRU prides itself at placing all our pets in precisely the position where they're guaranteed to flourish the most."

I hesitated, trying to come up with another question, but he went on before I could.

"What's your name?"

"Alexa Nock."

"How old are you, Alexa Nock?"

"Seventeen years and fifty weeks."

He nodded. "So you'll be eighteen in two weeks."

"Wow, you're a regular mathmetician."

"That is a small enough difference that I'm sure the higher ups won't have any problem with it. If you would like to send a message to your loved ones, now's your chance. I'm leaving for the local facility in an hour so I can drop you off while I'm going anyway."

"I never said I wanted to accept!" I protested, incredulous.

"But you do want to. I can tell. You're desperate, and you know this is your only chance. I'd suggest you take it."

My hands clenched into fists, then released. Clenched, and released. Finally, with a growl, I pulled out my phone and texted Sarah.

"No need to collect me."

I didn't give any more explanation, and she probably wouldn't ask for it.

"Smart choice," the man said. "Come around here." He gestured to his side of the stall.

I frowned. "Why?"

"Just come here," he snapped, annoyed.

I crossed my arms. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

He looked at me like he wanted nothing more than to break my nose. The feeling was completely mutual.

"You want to survive this job? Here's a tip: when someone tells you to do something, you do it. No questions asked. Now come over here and I won't mention this to your handler when we get to the facility."

"Fine, whatever." I rolled my eyes and rounded the stall so I was standing right in front of him.

He moved faster than I would have imagined possible, grabbing one side of my neck and shoving something into the other side. Something small and sharp. A syringe.

Immediately, the world starting dimming, and my body got heavy.

"What did you... do...." I barely had time to get the weak question out before everything went dark.

*

Time seemed to move differently, after that. Like it wasn't real. Or like it was too real. Stopping and starting, moving faster and slower. Sometimes, the world was dark and silent. Sometimes it was loud and bright. I barely remembered anything in this fake-time.

I remembered someone asking my questions. I remembered being slapped and poked and dragged around. I remembered being curled up tighter than I should be able to. I remembered being so, so cramped.

I remembered a number.

601482.

*

The only time I remembered fully in the drugged up state was when I woke up before the final injection was given.

I was sat on a chair, chained to a table, a piece of paper covered in writing and a pen in front of me.

"Sign here," a voice said, and a finger pointed at a line on the paper.

"Wha' ish i'?" I slurred, not fully awake enough to properly control my mouth.

"Your contract. Sign."

So, not aware enough to fight, I signed. My signature was sloppy, and far bigger than I normally would have done it, and barely recognisable as mine, but it was there.

"And how do you feel?" the voice asked.

I mumbled some nonsense syllables, unable to come up with anything more concrete.

"I need an answer, 601482. How do you feel?"

I tried to focus on my body, which seemed so far away, but it was impossible to focus long enough to find any sure feeling. I could identify pain, though. I couldn't find where it was coming from, but I knew it was there.

So I answered, "Ow."

"Good enough."

Another sharp prick in my neck, and time stopped once again.

*

When I finally woke up fully, I was in a very small, completely bare room. There was no bed, no desk or chair or anything. The only things breaking up the stone walls and floor and ceiling were a metal door and a wooden bucket.

I was wearing clothes that were not my own: a short-sleeved white button-up and a pair of black shorts. Not shoes, not even underwear, I realised with horror.

But worst of all was the collar around my neck, thick and heavy. I reached up a hand to touch it, my horror growing. There was not even enough space between the collar and my neck for my pinky finger, and it was wrapped in wires.

A shock collar.

My whole body ached. A brief inspection revealed bruises all over my limbs, and I found a small plaster under the collar, probably covering the spot the drug went into each time.

For the first time I could remember, I truly regretted my decision.

I should have just waited out the week - anything would have been better than this, even living on the streets.